Where the Hell Were Your Parents?

By Nathan Weathington

Sue Harris is a kind woman — I am glad we didn’t kill her. She was morbidly afraid of snakes, a weakness she let slip at a dinner party with our family. My identical twin brother Brian and I recognized and communicated an opportunity between us in a millisecond using that magical twin telepathy crap everyone always talks about. When we were finally able to break away from the table, both of us had already worked out the entire play, making further planning unnecessary.

We were new in town. Our dad was the head football coach, which in Bremen, Georgia, is more important than the mayor, Wal-Mart, and the lady who turned tricks at the local truck stop all combined. Let’s just say I found the movie Friday Night Lights a bit watered down. We were also twins, a bit of an oddity in a town of 3,500 people with only one other set at the time.

So, although we had not earned our notoriety, we were known. People knew we were Coach’s sons the day we arrived in Mountain Shadows, a glamorous suburb outside of the booming Bremen metropolis. But in a few years the roles would reverse. My parents would soon be known as the parents of the Weathington Boys, a title they carried with an even ratio of pride, love, and shame.

Brian and I had a great childhood. Our parents loved us, supported us, and somehow found the strength to not beat the living ass out of us. I can only hope I’ll have the same restraint with my two sons if they try to pull half the shit we did. Our parents gave us freedom kids today don’t have; we could go anywhere and do anything, and we usually did it packing heat.

Our parents had the courage to allow us this independence, without cell phones or a GPS device planted in our rectums. They did not entertain us twenty-four hours a day, buy us video games, or have a day-timer for our extracurricular activities. Yes, this sometimes led to temporary boredom. Boredom, and the subsequent hell Bremen suffered as we entertained ourselves, was a recurring theme of my childhood, and thus this book.

Had our parents obsessively entertained us, a lot of people would have never met the Weathington Boys, which might have seemed like a blessing at the time. However, those same people would now be stuck talking about their lawns and the weather instead of telling an entertaining story about being fleeced as part of the Raccoon Removal Scam of 1987. Amusing ourselves with such projects provided valuable life skills. Although video games do build impressive thumb strength, keeping our virginity into our thirties seemed like a harsh tradeoff.

The combination of smothering parents, the Internet, and reality television guarantees this next crop of kids will be the dullest our planet has ever seen. If you are ever stuck in a serious situation at work or in life, maybe turn to the kid who knows which end of the gun is the business end, not the one with the highest score on Dig Dug.

Our parents were comfortable with us being rough around the edges and took pride in the fact that we had more bruises, tetanus shots, and fish hook accidents than the normal kids. They did not give in to the parenting peer pressure of the day. Other parents found them irresponsible as we ran wild and routinely damaged or lost their precious children. This peer pressure is escalating with my generation as we partake in a heated arms race to prove who can be the most responsible, and therefore, the safest parent.

This movement has led parents to push for playgrounds that are as exciting as hermetically sealed carrots in your Halloween bag. Where the hell is the zip line these days? Maybe it’s harsh, but if your kid walks off the end of a plank ten feet in the air, chances are we needed to weed him out anyway or we might all end up as monster truck fans.

This safety movement has also led to an attempt to decrease stress in our kids’ lives. We’ve removed grades from schools, scores from athletic events, and kids whose parents can afford the visit to the doctor can get their sweethearts untimed testing. And if little Johnny is still stressed by the untimed testing, we have some meds for that. Fast forward to these kids telling their first boss that it doesn’t matter how long it takes them to stuff the Happy Meal.

The most extreme symptom of competitive parenting is baby sign language. This ridiculousness is somewhat self-explanatory. Lunatic parents have convinced themselves that their three-month-old is a master linguist despite the fact that they eat their own boogers. It might be hard to believe, but your kidbased on that smell smells likeyour kid he said he shit his pants, not that he enjoys listening to Mozart’s Piano Concerto #17.

My parents did their own thing when it came to parenting, mostly my mom’s doing. My mom’s childhood was less than spectacular to say the least. She was determined ours would be better, and man, it was. Now that I’m trying to figure out how the hell to raise two boys of my own, I frequently turn to her for advice. Her goal was for us to be independent and willing to take risks, and if that meant a few extra stitches and felonies, then so be it. She would not have allowed us to sit around Bremen, Georgia, after we graduated talking about our glory days over a case of PBR with the boys down at the local mud bog.

Sue Harris – the lady with the snake phobia - would not have accused my parents of over-parenting, not by a long shot. She volunteered to baby-sit us the day after that fateful dinner party. Things were going well — cupcakes, toys, and the high fructose corn syrup drink du jour. When the sugar-high dissipated, it was time to focus on the task at hand.

A week prior, while we were supposed to be having our souls saved for the umpteenth time at Bremen United Methodist Church, we snuck across the street to the Triangle store and purchased a plastic snake with the $3.25 we lifted from the offering plate. This was not your ordinary plastic snake. It was infinitely more believable than the holiness of our Youth Director, whom we all knew was sleeping with one of the youths. It was a dead ringer for a copperhead, and in case you’re not up on your ophiology, a copperhead is a very poisonous snake that inhabits the southeastern U.S.

While playing in the yard, we carefully wove “Oscar” into Sue’s grass.

“Do you think it will work?” I asked Brian.

“Well, only one way to find out.”

Brian, being the gutsier of the two of us, kept it simple and believable.

“Snnnnaaaake!!!”

“Convincing,” I said.

“Thanks.”

It only took one call. Sue burst out the front door like a Greyhound trying to avoid the inevitable antifreeze hotdog. Her feet barely touched the ground. Imagine a hysterical woman on a pogo-stick running the forty yard dash with four-three speed. Impressive. If my dad had witnessed her performance, he would have asked her to try out for tailback. She reached the shed, snatched up some kind of quick-release weapon — which turned out to be a razor-sharp hoe — and returned in a single bound, weapon poised. Oscar was a goner.

During this unexpected athletic performance, I could barely control my excitement and I looked to Brian for support. He simply stood with his arms crossed, the picture of relaxation, with just the edges of his mouth slightly turned up. He already looked like a seasoned gangster. Picture Robert De Niro’s character in Goodfellas as an eight-year-old, dress him in cutoffs instead of a suit, and you have Brian Weathington.

If Brian was a cross between Goodfellas and Stand By Me, I think that would make me Geordie, the lead character in Stand By Me. Geordie and I were both a bit more compassionate than our counterparts, tended to be the voice of reason, didn’t like leeches on our balls, and when push came to shove would bring the crazy in spades.

Sue’s attack on that plastic snake would have made any mongoose, or parent, proud. Before we could tell her it was a fake, Oscar was minced into hundreds of pieces. In a move describable now as Matrixesque, she leaped back to the front door and disappeared inside.

Complete silence. Cue chirping crickets.

“Wow,” I finally gasped. “That worked way better than I expected.”

“The best $3.25 we ever spent.”

“We’ll need to get another snake.”

“Most definitely.”

Sue never came back outside to check on us or even spoke to us from a window. We assumed she was in the fetal position somewhere in a closet. After picking up Oscar we strolled back home, our stroll quickly, yet unintentionally, becoming a strut. Once home, we cooked ourselves dinner and tried to see if we could descramble Skinomax.

As I was working the cable box over with a butter knife, our parents drove up. I flipped the channel to a nature documentary and jumped in my dad’s recliner. As they walked in, my mom looked over, confused.

“What are you two doing here?”

“We came home for some dinner,” I answered.

“Well, what did you make?”

“Pop-Tarts and Yoo-Hoo.”

“That sounds like a well-balanced meal,” my mom said in her most sarcastic voice.

“Are there any left?” my dad chimed in, detouring us off of my mom’s original line of questioning.

“Stay focused, Larry. What did you do?”

“Well, do you remember Oscar our plastic snake?”

“You didn’t.”

“I’m afraid we did.”

“You probably gave that poor woman a heart attack.”

“Yeah, I think we scared her really bad. She chopped Oscar into a million pieces.”

“Wow, I bet that was a sight,” my dad said as his Pop-Tart dinged in the toaster.

“You’re not helping this situation, Larry.”

My mom appeared to be upset, although even at the time I did not feel it was sincere. She walked across the street to try to calm Sue down.

Tucked into our bunk beds, Brian and I laughed ourselves to sleep with stories about the short yet eventful life of Oscar the plastic snake. It was a noble death. We were born partners in crime, and the fact that we both found the same pranks entertaining only led to more trouble.

From that day forward, Bremen was our town; they were just livin’ in it.

Where There’s Smoke, There’s Hoodlums – 1983 9 years old

Mr. Sharp was a cantankerous old man — I am glad we didn’t kill him. Or at least I don’t think we killed him. Word had spread about the Weathington Boys, although apparently Mr. Sharp had not gotten the memo.

It was just like every other hot-as-hell summer day in Bremen. Dark, heat-soaking colors were avoided to prevent spontaneous combustion. We also never wore sun block; I guess it hadn’t been invented yet, or least my parents had not heard of it. In summer, you would have had a hard time picking us out of most Mexican towns. Anyway, we lived too far away for cross-border antics like fireworks-smuggling or gun-running, which was probably for the best.

Compare this to today where my two sons are wearing white-boy sombreros with mud flaps in the back while having their entire bodies dipped in glue. We treat the poor boys like vampires, which, contrary to People Magazine, is not all it is cracked up to be.

Several normal, polite, church-going kids had joined Brian and I in hopes of either elevating their “cool” status or increasing their odds of playground survival. And that day we were heading to Big Creek, not to be confused with Little Creek on the other side of the neighborhood. Big Creek routinely had larger crawfish and a rope swing that would make a nun want to do back gainer with a flying squirrel toe touch. This swing would bring out the red in almost anybody. If you put a Yankee investment banker on this thing, he would be dipping Copenhagen before he hit the water. This was good country-ass fun.

In Mr. Sharp’s defense, how was he to know where the line was? The line he crossed, although imperceptible to him, might as well have been carved in stone in our delinquent, silly little minds.

If you crossed the line, you paid the fine.

The gang was thirsty after perfecting the back flip/preacher seat combo at Big Creek, so we headed to the nearest water spigot, which doubled as our personal water fountain. Once we all had a little Buddha potbelly full of water, the door opened. No one ran. Why would we? We were drinking water, not smoking crack.

Mr. Sharp yelled for us to get off his grass, quit stealing his water, never step foot in his yard, and threw in a few harsh words that we didn’t yet recognize. He broke cardinal rule number one: Respect the Weathington Boys. We were not above being yelled at, and the language didn’t faze us, but to tell us what we could and could not do, especially during summer vacation, crossed the line. If you gave us respect and let us go about our day you could get away with a lot more. He may not have gotten the memo, but a smarter neighbor would have handled this differently.

For example, a few years later, Mike Lively was building a swanky new house on top of the hill. Mike wasn’t stupid, and he knew if he wanted to build his home stress-free and hole-free, he needed to come see the Weathington Boys before he broke ground.

Mike cornered us in the field house after school one day. He pulled us aside, got up in our face, and told us if we damaged his house in any way he was coming down to beat our ass. Although Brian and I could have taken him at the time, Brian nodded and said it wouldn’t be a problem. I was surprised by Brian’s restraint; he was always more likely to hit you with a bat than I was.

“Why’d you let him punk us like that?”

“Mike runs Sewell’s,” Brian explained. Sewell’s was a clothing manufacturer and the largest business in town. This was before the invention of Wal-Mart or China.

“So? He can still get his ass kicked!”

“It’s three o’clock in the afternoon, Nathan.”

I was still drawing a blank on why we were not wailing on him with a sock full of Jacks.

Brian was very calm — not one of his strong suits — which in turn calmed me down. He had obviously given this some thought and patiently took me through his reasoning. He knew we would see eye to eye or he would not have spoken for both of us in the first place. We rarely disagreed.

“Mike took off work, came down here in his suit, found us — a task the FBI has found challenging. This threat took planning. He knew before he called the city to get permission to build he had to come see us first.”

“I follow you,” I said.

“Respect,” Brian declared.

Not only did we not trash his house, we made sure no would-be up-and-coming juvenile delinquents touched it either.

Back to that steamy, southern summer day. Mr. Sharp had not shown the appropriate amount of respect — not even close. After he finished his tirade, we all gave a weak apology and went about our day. We had plans to make.

Planning attacks was the most enjoyable part of my childhood. It was like a boardroom brainstorming meeting, but without shirts or anyone over age eleven. PowerPoint hadn’t been invented, thank God. Digital documentation of these attacks would probably have gotten us five to ten.

Excitement and nervous energy was in the air, aided by the sweet tea and Lik-M-Aid. I loved these meetings even more than the actual attack. They were a chance for me to show off my creative side. I was much better at planning the correct way to shoot someone in the ass with a pellet gun, and Brian was much better at actually doing it. The preparation was elaborate. These meetings routinely lasted a few hours and included a variety of diagrams and sketches to cover positions, timing, supplies, and all other relevant details. I’m surprised the Pentagon didn’t draft us straight out of elementary school. We met in our carport around a card table at about seven in the morning. No moss grew on us. We had things to do.

Brian and I were always first to the boardroom to cover classified topics before the rest of the gang arrived. We discussed things like what we would do if someone ratted on us or who we thought would get caught first if the fuzz was on our tail.

Then the rest of the gang arrived.

“What’s the play?” Brian asked.

The new kids threw out ideas to try to impress us. Some weren’t bad, but Brian shot them down with contempt.

“T.P. his house?”

“Been done,” Brian said.

“Egg it?”

“More destructive, but boring,” he said.

“Send him pizzas?”

Brian did not even acknowledge this idea.

“Fireworks?” I said.

“That’s got legs.”

Fireworks are illegal in the state of Georgia. But, about ten minutes down the road, conveniently just over the Alabama state line, stood Firework City, the Holy Grail of gunpowder. Not being able to drive did pose a small problem, but we quickly learned the art of hitchhiking. It’s surprising and somehow heartening to recall a time when people willingly and unquestioningly picked up nine-year-old boys off the side of the highway and dropped them off at an explosives emporium. Brian and I did clean up pretty well when we wanted something, and with our dark skin we looked like a cross between a pre-teen Swedish boy and a young Shaka Zulu. We were pure heat, just two cute innocent identical twin boys trying to get across the state line to the legal dynamite store. Our thumbs never broke a sweat and we were never gone long enough for our parents to miss us.

If you were a knowledgeable and therefore confident young firework buyer, you could walk out of Firework City essentially carrying a bundle of dynamiteTNT. They even threw in free Thunder Bombs with your purchase. This might seem crazy to kids today who carry Purell in their back pocket. Yes, you read correctly: we hitchhiked to the Wal-Mart of fireworks, shopped unsupervised, spent our own hard-earned money on explosive devices, and got free mini-sticks of dynamite for being such loyal customers. This was Bremen, Georgia, 1983. It was also time to take inventory.

“What kind of fireworks does everyone have left over?” asked Brian.

“Roman Candles,” said the kid from Syria, who was new to fireworks, although very enthusiastic and showing huge potential.

“Bottle Rockets,” piped the kid with the shiny, perfectly combed blond hair. This hair told the world his mom did not know he was with us. His fireworks were technically Whistlers, but I kept my mouth shut. It was an easy mistake to make, especially with hair like that. This is the same kid who would later get blasted with a fire extinguisher for counting down the remaining days of summer vacation.

“Snakes,” whispered the preacher’s son who’d recently moved to the neighborhood. He would later be forbidden by God to hang out with the Weathington Boys.

“Did you really just say ‘Snakes’?” Brian asked. “That firework is so lame it’s not even really a firework. Nathan, punch him.”

Although he did deserve it, I didn’t punch our new bible school friend. Instead, I did have an epiphany.

Mr. Bible School thought about mouthing off, but saw Brian was carrying his bat and decided to take his natural position in the pecking order. Last.

To call a Mammoth Smoke a smoke bomb would have been like calling his momma big-boned.

“One Mammoth Smoke is the same as 10,000 of the things you call smoke bombs.”

“So a Mammoth Smoke is the weapon. What’s the plan?” Brian inquired.

“I know we’re thinking carport or porch, the usual places, but I think the front door is the target,” I responded.

“Huh? It will just blow away,” Brian said.

“Well, there are actually two front doors, one main door and one air-tight storm door on the outside.”

“I like it, go on.”

“We put the smoke bomb—”

“You mean Mammoth Smoke.”

“Excuse me. So we put the Mammoth Smoke between the doors and light it…”

“And ring the door bell!” our young Christian friend chimed in.

“You really should try to listen more and talk less. As I was saying, we light the Mammoth Smoke, and wait. It takes ten minutes to dump its full load. Then we ring it.”

Brian said he was in; no one else had voting rights.

The plan was simple — no PowerPoint needed. The attack started the next day, broad daylight. We lit God’s gift to smoke bombs and hit the bushes. The door was invisible within the first ten seconds. That storm door did its job; only small plumes of smoke escaped. The smoke became thick and looked like gravy. It appeared as if we would need a shovel to dig the smoke out of the door. Finally the hissing stopped. I darted up and rang the doorbell.

It took old Mr. Sharp a few minutes to get to the door. When he opened it, just as we had planned, the gravy of 10,000 smoke bombs was sucked into his face and his house. Spasmodic coughing and high pitched screaming ensued; he thought his house was on fire, a legitimate concern under the circumstances, and one that hadn’t really crossed our minds. It was a nice bonus.

From our position, we could clearly see into his living room. A drunken chicken was crashing into furniture trying to piece together what the hell was going on. The smoke was thick, heavy, and starting to settle on the floor like a giant s’more.

It was time for us to move. Our policy for closing an attack was to get the hell out of Dodge before the neighbors or the cops showed up. Mr. Sharp was left gasping for air in his new marshmallow-themed living room as we sprinted through the woods. The gang fantasized about Mr. Sharp doing the Curly Shuffle on the floor for the next three days.

After that, we continued to drink from his faucet and use his yard as a thoroughfare to Big Creek without conflict. Maybe he now respected us, or maybe he was still in the hospital. Either way, we were back in charge.

3. THE Great Wall 1983 – 9 years old

I.

The weather forecast called for light snow, and the Weathington Boys forecasted you getting your ass kicked if you messed with our favorite precipitation. It rarely snowed in Bremen; when it did, it was up to the Weathington Boys to ensure every kid in a thirty-mile radius got a snow day. We had to get to work.

Before Al Gore caused global warming, it snowed at our house once every two or three years. We loved snow the way an Eskimo loves pineapple. All the kids in the town reminisced about The Big One. The Big One was a massive six-inch dump of snow, but as the years passed it got deeper and deeper. Now living in Canada, I realize how ridiculous we must have seemed to our northern neighbors. Grocery store chains prayed for a snow forecast. Bremen didn’t actually need snow — just a chance of snow, and the entire town would lose their freakin’ minds. Within hours of the news, you would only find bare shelves at Piggly Wiggly, a very highbrow local grocer, and the lines would stretch back to the meat counter. The good-ole-boys always loved the idea of having to live off the land like cavemen using just their wits, a fishing rod, and an AK-47 for survival. Even Brian and I couldn’t help but nod our heads every time Hank Williams’ Country Boy Can Survive came on the radio.

In our neighborhood lived an abundance of teachers, including my parents. The homes must have been affordable given the buying power of public school teachers in Georgia. More importantly, we had two principals and one superintendent living on our turf. Having what seemed like every one of our teachers as neighbors was a burden every day of our childhood, except this day.

The snow began falling on a Sunday night. It was light, but it stuck. Our neighborhood was rather hilly by local standards, which made it not only hard to get out of, but also a Mecca for would be sledders.

Brian and I were the picture of innocence as we looked out our window and talked about the exciting snow games we would play the next day. We already knew where the fort would go and who would be on what snowball team. My mom and dad were sitting in front of the fire reading and sipping hot chocolate.

Then Brian and I noticed our neighbor Mr. Doug Douglas, a principal of one of the local schools, driving around the neighborhood. He went by once and we did not pay attention. On the second trip around the neighborhood, I asked Brian if he thought Mr. Douglas was lost. On the third trip around, Brian jumped to attention. “What the hell?” We went downstairs and asked our parents what Mr. Douglas was up to. They explained he was trying to get rid of the snow on the roads to make it safe for us to all go to school the next day.

Get rid of the snow! Surely, I had heard incorrectly. Overcome with rage, my vision closed in and I almost blacked out, but before I did, Brian, with ice water in his veins, declared we were both tired and were going to bed. My parents eyed us as Brian led me away by my sleeve. Obviously, Brian was not tired, and besides the blacking out part, I was as keyed up as kangaroo on meth. I knew it was on.

Using all the cuss-words we knew at the time (damn and hell) to vent our anger toward Mr. Douglas, it was now time to get down to business. As far as we were concerned, the future of human civilization rested on our shoulders. There was no time to assemble the troops, and an emergency ten o’clock meeting was hard to pull off for nine year olds, even us. It didn’t matter.

This job called for the real players: we didn’t have time to baby-sit anyone who was out of shape or out of guts.

“We might not see snow like this again in our lifetime,” Brian stated. “Doug will have ruined the best snow that has ever hit this town.”

Brian and I hadn’t mastered the art of moderation, a deficit that would plague us well into adulthood. In our demented little minds, it was either worth dying for or not worth doing at all.

A snow day was clearly worth dying for; still is, if you ask me.

Assessing our potential responses, we worked through the usual violent attacks, but busting windows or egging someone’s house didn’t really solve the problem.

“Maybe we should attack his truck,” I said.

“I agree, but I doubt we can pull it off with just the two of us.”

“We need more snow.”

“What about ice?”

Mom and Dad stayed up later than usual to enjoy the fire, or more likely because they were not buying Brian’s “we’re tired” act. However, as soon as they were finally asleep at eleven o’clock, we slipped out the back. Our idea would require at least 250 feet of garden hose, which meant we needed not only all the hoses from our house, but three neighbors’ as well.

First thing first: Snuff out the snow hater. This was easily accomplished with our football field-length hose. It wouldn’t reach from our house, so we hooked it up to the hater’s house. It was poetic justice, even if Brian and I hated poetry. Next, we watered every inch of his driveway. Two hours later, he had his very own ice rink. While we waited for Mr. Douglas’ driveway to freeze, we hit the remaining big wigs in the neighborhood. It was hard work for two scrawny nine-year-olds to sneak the 100 pounds of water-filled hose through the dark, snow-covered woods. The round trip was about two miles. It was now two in the morning.

“Ok, all the big dogs have ice rinks for driveways. Do you think that’s enough?” I asked.

“We need to block the street.”

“How? We can’t ice over the entire neighborhood. The sun will come up eventually, and Mom and Dad might be pissed if we aren’t there for breakfast.”

I was always the voice of reason in the gang, which is a bit of a scary thought. I was far from a mother hen: I just felt obligated to point out that dropping a cross tie on a car might kill someone. I never said we shouldn’t do it; I just wanted to make sure we were all aware of what we were doing. As an aside, let’s fast forward to our college years to find out what happened when the voice of reason left town.

Graduating early from college, I left Brian and the infamous Ray, whom I will formally introduce in a later chapter, without their voice of reason. Better said: Brian and Ray took two extra years to graduate. It was touch-and-go if they were going to make it out of there alive and without a jailhouse tattoo. They like to paint me as a prude, and I guess I am compared to them, but so is Charles Manson. Although they give me a hard time, I know they are thankful for my valuable counseling over the years. For the record, I have never told them they should not do something. I was smart enough to phrase it another way.

“I’m not trying to tell you two how to live your lives, but we’re over 18, and this stunt is a minimum of five years in real ass-rape level prison. Do you think it’s worth it?”

“Maybe not when you put it that way. Good point, Nate,” Brian or Ray would say. It should be mentioned that Brian and Ray were the only ones who called me Nate; when others did I usually corrected them. Although it was never addressed, it felt forced, like one of my son’s slack-jawed schoolmates calling me ‘Dad.’

Unfortunately, I can’t comment much on those college years. Although damn entertaining, there might be some statute of limitation issues, and I can’t afford a lawyer at this time. The general book-buying public also might not see the humor in an old-school B&E, beating up cops, racketeering, slapping around and robbing a boy band, or breaking someone’s ass in half if they mess with Willie Nelson. Well, maybe the boy band part. I’ll put that in the next book.

Back to saving civilization – and our snow day.

“We have to block the street!” Brian said again, sharply.

Urgency was setting in; we were getting panicky and starting to snap at each other. Had we failed at our mission? Were all the kids going to have to go to school the next day because of our ineptness? Had we tarnished our good name?

“We have to do it. We have no choice,” I said.

“Well, they all have to come out the same road,” Brian contemplated.

“They all go up the hill in front of the house,” I responded.

“True. I wish we could ice over the entire hill or make it too thick to drive over.”

“It’s not cold enough for that many layers.”

“But we could shovel it all from the neighborhood and put it in one spot.”

Brian and I instantly knew this was our only hope. We picked up two five-gallon buckets and two shovels from the shed. Discussing it further was a waste of time.

There was not a single complaint issued during the next four hours of hard labor. It was below freezing and we were in short sleeves, but we didn’t have the luxury of time to dress ourselves properly. Our people needed us: no kid would be left behind. The snow might have been a half-inch deep in the thickest spot. We scraped every flake we could find and put it in buckets that we ran up the hill and placed on the Bremen version of the Great Wall. We worked like the slaves on the pyramids — minus the heat, daylight, and repetitive whipping.

Three hours later at around five in the morning, it looked as if it had snowed only in a five foot tall, 25-foot wide section of wall barricading the road. We shaped and packed it with pride. Our hands were ice themselves, but the warmth of delinquency kept us going. Once we had a rough design in place, it was still just snow, and a pickup truck could bust through.

“I’m starting to feel good about this,” Brian said.

“Me too.”

“We need to ice it.”

“Obviously.”

The wall ran between two homes. We split our hoses and ran two lines. The wall was soaked for the remainder of the night. As the sun came up, we replaced all hoses and tools and slid back into bed. We had been there barely long enough to warm up when my mom called us down for yet another amazing breakfast.

Our mom served us a hot breakfast every day of our lives. Sometimes I think the only thing that kept us out of the Pen was my mom’s homemade biscuits. I’m hoping the same strategy works on my boys.

We woke up groggy, but excited. My dad commented that we still looked tired, but Mom’s biscuits were soon the center of attention, and my dad went about sketching another brilliant football play on his napkin.

“I know you don’t want to go school today,” my dad said. “But it doesn’t look like there is much snow on the ground. Sorry, boys.”

“There goes Doug,” my mom said.

“Good luck,” Brian mumbled with a biscuit in his mouth.

I pretended to choke as I got my laughter under control.

“Doug’s back fast; it must not be clear,” Mom said.

“That’s weird; Tim hasn’t made it out either.”

At this point, we started packing in the biscuits; we had a big day ahead of us.

Slowly, everyone started to come out of their homes to see what exactly was going on. Since there was zero snow or ice on the road, people were wondering why everyone who left for work or school promptly came back. Simultaneously, all neighborhood eyes fell on the large white wall in the middle of the black asphalt. It became the focus of conversation. Brian and I feigned confusion as we asked what was going on. Many of the neighbors flocked to the wall like those old farts in Cocoon. They touched it, kicked at it, and stood on it. Unless someone had a backhoe and five sticks of dynamite, it was not moving.

It worked much better than we had planned. It was so hard it did not even feel like ice. It was more like a cold block of granite. The wall also had an ice slick downstream from the leftover water; a nice touch that slowed down would-be rammers. I can only imagine what it feels like for a woman to bring life onto this planet, but I’m pretty sure it would pale in comparison to the pride, excitement, and overwhelming joy Brian and I felt toward that wall.

Everyone was confused about where the wall came from, including my mom and dad. My dad was actually confused, but this was Mom’s normal routine. Anytime something was amiss, she always knew who did it, but would go along with the shock and confusion of the rest of the pack.

I swear she could have passed a lie detector test; the woman is a genius. She was a silent partner in our escapades in some respects. Just like us, she would never rat out a friend, and her friends in this case were her two delinquent sons. Her voice would not crack or stutter, and she had a tight poker face only Brian and I could read. Her face would appear warmer to the two of us, despite the fact her expression was unchanged to the general public. She always thought of us as clever, not mischievous, and enjoyed our freedom as much as we did. Now I don’t want to give the impression my mom was a pushover. She would not tolerate us being disrespectful in any way, and we always did as we were told.

She had not specifically said not to barricade the neighborhood.

So why in the world did she allow us to run feral, destroying everything in our path? She loved us, but all moms love their kids.

Unlike every other mom in town, I now know that we highly entertained her. She found the merit badge, prom king, bible freak, and piano-playing choirboys boring. And if we were anything, it wasn’t boring. I know she had to keep a straight face and remain stern when she disciplined us. However, how mad could she realistically be at two boys industrious enough to shut down the entire school system, thus allowing her a well-deserved day off?

Our mom always protected us; or maybe she was protecting herself. Either way, it worked to our advantage.

Brian and I returned home to listen for the school closures on the radio. They read them off one by one. They finished by naming Bremen City Schools. Just as we had planned, if the school VIPs could not make it in, the little people would be free. Brian gave me a very subtle nod. Mission accomplished.

My mom entered the house in near hysterics. She already had tears in her eyes from laughing.

“You two…” she stopped as if she were about to say something very profound.

“Are quite unbelievable.”

II.

Although we’d been awake for 27 hours, the day wasn’t over yet. We were just getting warmed up. The overly aggressive snowball fight was first, followed by the most dangerous sledding you could possibly imagine. We didn’t have the luxury of a snow-blanketed road like our spoiled Yankee and Canadian neighbors:some fancy maneuvering was necessary if you wanted to avoid road rash. (The snow farming for the Great Wall had left large bare patches of asphalt.) Sparks lit up the road behind our sleds in an impressive light show.

Next was a ten-person flat bottom boat ride down the hill. Just for your information: The momentum of a flat bottom boat with ten guys — and your mom — going down a steep, ice-glazed hill is far greater than the static force of a maroon 4x4 mailbox post, standard issue as per the bylaws of our posh neighborhood. Said boat will snap it off like a toothpick.

Although it had been an action-packed night and day, we still had one more attack left. Like pint-sized generals at the Battle of Fort Sumter, we arranged our elementary school troops within entrenched positions on either side of the Wall and distributed every last snowball that could be mustered.

The Great Wall was as we’d left it early that morning. But now a Lincoln Town Car, a massive car with plenty of muscle under the hood, approached the Wall.

The driver got out, sized up the obstacle with disdain and figured she could bust through. She had a bitter scowl on her face, as hard as the wall, as she climbed once again behind the wheel of her Lincoln leviathan.

She backed up about a hundred feet and got a running start. Her speed was impressive, almost scary. Brian and I watched in mute fascination as the Lincoln hit the Wall straight on. The Wall won. It did not even flake. The Lincoln crumpled like an accordion. The woman jumped out of the car, crying and screaming in her Sunday best.

It was go time. Every boy simultaneously jumped from his hiding spot in the snowball version of D-Day. She looked like Snow White trying to fend off those seven horny midgets. Even the limp-wristed, unathletic kids were lighting her up.

Brian and I both had cannons for arms, and he could thread the needle. Brian was so skilled at throwing that he never just tried to hit you, he tried for a specific part of you. It was a headshot or nothing. If I knew him, he was aiming for the face as well: The back of the head just did not splat the same. The beauty of the mass attack is no one knows who actually threw the kill shot, except the person who threw it, or his twin brother, in this case. Brian made his target on the second throw.

Luckily it was not a battle-grade snowball. It was a gentle yet effective splat that covered most of her face. To say she was crying would be an understatement. Wailing would be more appropriate.

Brian and I knew this was the climax of a long, well-earned day off from school. Before all hell broke loose, we slid out the back and were home in time for dinner. Mom’s vegetable soup was a mainstay on snow days. This, along with the homemade southern cornbread that probably had more lard than corn in it, sent us straight into a food coma.

Brian and I both slept for twelve hard hours. Sacrifices sometimes must be made for the betterment of society. We were the juvenile suburban version of Robin Hood, and the snow-deprived kids of rural Georgia were the beneficiaries.

The Great Wall lasted for weeks. Eventually, once it softened, neighbors used picks and shovels to clear off one lane for traffic. Remnants of ice were still on the road a month later, when we were back in our cutoffs.

1. I Hate Snakes - 1982 8 Years old

Sue Harris is a kind woman — I am glad we didn’t kill her. She was morbidly afraid of snakes, a weakness she let slip at a dinner party with our family. My identical twin brother Brian and I recognized and communicated an opportunity between us in a millisecond using that magical twin telepathy crap everyone always talks about. When we were finally able to break away from the table, both of us had already worked out the entire play, making further planning unnecessary. We were new in town. Our dad was the head football coach, which in Bremen, Georgia, is more important than the mayor, Wal-Mart, and the lady who turned tricks at the local truck stop all combined. Let’s just say I found the movie Friday Night Lights a bit watered down. We were also twins, a bit of an oddity in a town of 3,500 people with only one other set at the time.So, although we had not earned our notoriety, we were known. People knew we were Coach’s sons the day we arrived in Mountain Shadows, a glamorous suburb outside of the booming Bremen metropolis. But in a few years the roles would reverse. My parents would soon be known as the parents of the Weathington Boys, a title they carried with an even ratio of pride, love, and shame. Brian and I had a great childhood. Our parents loved us, supported us, and somehow found the strength to not beat the living ass out of us. I can only hope I’ll have the same restraint with my two sons if they try to pull half the shit we did. Our parents gave us freedom kids today don’t have; we could go anywhere and do anything, and we usually did it packing heat.Our parents had the courage to allow us this independence, without cell phones or a GPS device planted in our rectums. They did not entertain us twenty-four hours a day, buy us video games, or have a day-timer for our extracurricular activities. Yes, this sometimes led to temporary boredom. Boredom, and the subsequent hell Bremen suffered as we entertained ourselves, was a recurring theme of my childhood, and thus this book. Had our parents obsessively entertained us, a lot of people would have never met the Weathington Boys, which might have seemed like a blessing at the time. However, those same people would now be stuck talking about their lawns and the weather instead of telling an entertaining story about being fleeced as part of the Raccoon Removal Scam of 1987. Amusing ourselves with such projects provided valuable life skills. Although video games do build impressive thumb strength, keeping our virginity into our thirties seemed like a harsh tradeoff. The combination of smothering parents, the Internet, and reality television guarantees this next crop of kids will be the dullest our planet has ever seen. If you are ever stuck in a serious situation at work or in life, maybe turn to the kid who knows which end of the gun is the business end, not the one with the highest score on Dig Dug.Our parents were comfortable with us being rough around the edges and took pride in the fact that we had more bruises, tetanus shots, and fish hook accidents than the normal kids. They did not give in to the parenting peer pressure of the day. Other parents found them irresponsible as we ran wild and routinely damaged or lost their precious children. This peer pressure is escalating with my generation as we partake in a heated arms race to prove who can be the most responsible, and therefore, the safest parent. This movement has led parents to push for playgrounds that are as exciting as hermetically sealed carrots in your Halloween bag. Where the hell is the zip line these days? Maybe it’s harsh, but if your kid walks off the end of a plank ten feet in the air, chances are we needed to weed him out anyway or we might all end up as monster truck fans.This safety movement has also led to an attempt to decrease stress in our kids’ lives. We’ve removed grades from schools, scores from athletic events, and kids whose parents can afford the visit to the doctor can get their sweethearts untimed testing. And if little Johnny is still stressed by the untimed testing, we have some meds for that. Fast forward to these kids telling their first boss that it doesn’t matter how long it takes them to stuff the Happy Meal.The most extreme symptom of competitive parenting is baby sign language. This ridiculousness is somewhat self-explanatory. Lunatic parents have convinced themselves that their three-month-old is a master linguist despite the fact that they eat their own boogers. It might be hard to believe, but your kidbased on that smell smells likeyour kid he said he shit his pants, not that he enjoys listening to Mozart’s Piano Concerto #17.My parents did their own thing when it came to parenting, mostly my mom’s doing. My mom’s childhood was less than spectacular to say the least. She was determined ours would be better, and man, it was. Now that I’m trying to figure out how the hell to raise two boys of my own, I frequently turn to her for advice. Her goal was for us to be independent and willing to take risks, and if that meant a few extra stitches and felonies, then so be it. She would not have allowed us to sit around Bremen, Georgia, after we graduated talking about our glory days over a case of PBR with the boys down at the local mud bog. Sue Harris – the lady with the snake phobia - would not have accused my parents of over-parenting, not by a long shot. She volunteered to baby-sit us the day after that fateful dinner party. Things were going well — cupcakes, toys, and the high fructose corn syrup drink du jour. When the sugar-high dissipated, it was time to focus on the task at hand. A week prior, while we were supposed to be having our souls saved for the umpteenth time at Bremen United Methodist Church, we snuck across the street to the Triangle store and purchased a plastic snake with the $3.25 we lifted from the offering plate. This was not your ordinary plastic snake. It was infinitely more believable than the holiness of our Youth Director, whom we all knew was sleeping with one of the youths. It was a dead ringer for a copperhead, and in case you’re not up on your ophiology, a copperhead is a very poisonous snake that inhabits the southeastern U.S. While playing in the yard, we carefully wove “Oscar” into Sue’s grass. “Do you think it will work?” I asked Brian.“Well, only one way to find out.”Brian, being the gutsier of the two of us, kept it simple and believable. “Snnnnaaaake!!!” “Convincing,” I said. “Thanks.”It only took one call. Sue burst out the front door like a Greyhound trying to avoid the inevitable antifreeze hotdog. Her feet barely touched the ground. Imagine a hysterical woman on a pogo-stick running the forty yard dash with four-three speed. Impressive. If my dad had witnessed her performance, he would have asked her to try out for tailback. She reached the shed, snatched up some kind of quick-release weapon — which turned out to be a razor-sharp hoe — and returned in a single bound, weapon poised. Oscar was a goner. During this unexpected athletic performance, I could barely control my excitement and I looked to Brian for support. He simply stood with his arms crossed, the picture of relaxation, with just the edges of his mouth slightly turned up. He already looked like a seasoned gangster. Picture Robert De Niro’s character in Goodfellas as an eight-year-old, dress him in cutoffs instead of a suit, and you have Brian Weathington.If Brian was a cross between Goodfellas and Stand By Me, I think that would make me Geordie, the lead character in Stand By Me. Geordie and I were both a bit more compassionate than our counterparts, tended to be the voice of reason, didn’t like leeches on our balls, and when push came to shove would bring the crazy in spades. Sue’s attack on that plastic snake would have made any mongoose, or parent, proud. Before we could tell her it was a fake, Oscar was minced into hundreds of pieces. In a move describable now as Matrixesque, she leaped back to the front door and disappeared inside. Complete silence. Cue chirping crickets. “Wow,” I finally gasped. “That worked way better than I expected.” “The best $3.25 we ever spent.”“We’ll need to get another snake.”“Most definitely.”Sue never came back outside to check on us or even spoke to us from a window. We assumed she was in the fetal position somewhere in a closet. After picking up Oscar we strolled back home, our stroll quickly, yet unintentionally, becoming a strut. Once home, we cooked ourselves dinner and tried to see if we could descramble Skinomax.As I was working the cable box over with a butter knife, our parents drove up. I flipped the channel to a nature documentary and jumped in my dad’s recliner. As they walked in, my mom looked over, confused.“What are you two doing here?”“We came home for some dinner,” I answered. “Well, what did you make?”“Pop-Tarts and Yoo-Hoo.”“That sounds like a well-balanced meal,” my mom said in her most sarcastic voice.“Are there any left?” my dad chimed in, detouring us off of my mom’s original line of questioning. “Stay focused, Larry. What did you do?”“Well, do you remember Oscar our plastic snake?”“You didn’t.”“I’m afraid we did.”“You probably gave that poor woman a heart attack.”“Yeah, I think we scared her really bad. She chopped Oscar into a million pieces.”“Wow, I bet that was a sight,” my dad said as his Pop-Tart dinged in the toaster. “You’re not helping this situation, Larry.”My mom appeared to be upset, although even at the time I did not feel it was sincere. She walked across the street to try to calm Sue down.Tucked into our bunk beds, Brian and I laughed ourselves to sleep with stories about the short yet eventful life of Oscar the plastic snake. It was a noble death. We were born partners in crime, and the fact that we both found the same pranks entertaining only led to more trouble.From that day forward, Bremen was our town; they were just livin’ in it. Where There’s Smoke, There’s Hoodlums – 1983 9 years old

Mr. Sharp was a cantankerous old man — I am glad we didn’t kill him. Or at least I don’t think we killed him. Word had spread about the Weathington Boys, although apparently Mr. Sharp had not gotten the memo. It was just like every other hot-as-hell summer day in Bremen. Dark, heat-soaking colors were avoided to prevent spontaneous combustion. We also never wore sun block; I guess it hadn’t been invented yet, or least my parents had not heard of it. In summer, you would have had a hard time picking us out of most Mexican towns. Anyway, we lived too far away for cross-border antics like fireworks-smuggling or gun-running, which was probably for the best. Compare this to today where my two sons are wearing white-boy sombreros with mud flaps in the back while having their entire bodies dipped in glue. We treat the poor boys like vampires, which, contrary to People Magazine, is not all it is cracked up to be. Several normal, polite, church-going kids had joined Brian and I in hopes of either elevating their “cool” status or increasing their odds of playground survival. And that day we were heading to Big Creek, not to be confused with Little Creek on the other side of the neighborhood. Big Creek routinely had larger crawfish and a rope swing that would make a nun want to do back gainer with a flying squirrel toe touch. This swing would bring out the red in almost anybody. If you put a Yankee investment banker on this thing, he would be dipping Copenhagen before he hit the water. This was good country-ass fun. In Mr. Sharp’s defense, how was he to know where the line was? The line he crossed, although imperceptible to him, might as well have been carved in stone in our delinquent, silly little minds.If you crossed the line, you paid the fine. The gang was thirsty after perfecting the back flip/preacher seat combo at Big Creek, so we headed to the nearest water spigot, which doubled as our personal water fountain. Once we all had a little Buddha potbelly full of water, the door opened. No one ran. Why would we? We were drinking water, not smoking crack. Mr. Sharp yelled for us to get off his grass, quit stealing his water, never step foot in his yard, and threw in a few harsh words that we didn’t yet recognize. He broke cardinal rule number one: Respect the Weathington Boys. We were not above being yelled at, and the language didn’t faze us, but to tell us what we could and could not do, especially during summer vacation, crossed the line. If you gave us respect and let us go about our day you could get away with a lot more. He may not have gotten the memo, but a smarter neighbor would have handled this differently.

For example, a few years later, Mike Lively was building a swanky new house on top of the hill. Mike wasn’t stupid, and he knew if he wanted to build his home stress-free and hole-free, he needed to come see the Weathington Boys before he broke ground.Mike cornered us in the field house after school one day. He pulled us aside, got up in our face, and told us if we damaged his house in any way he was coming down to beat our ass. Although Brian and I could have taken him at the time, Brian nodded and said it wouldn’t be a problem. I was surprised by Brian’s restraint; he was always more likely to hit you with a bat than I was.“Why’d you let him punk us like that?”“Mike runs Sewell’s,” Brian explained. Sewell’s was a clothing manufacturer and the largest business in town. This was before the invention of Wal-Mart or China.“So? He can still get his ass kicked!”“It’s three o’clock in the afternoon, Nathan.”I was still drawing a blank on why we were not wailing on him with a sock full of Jacks.Brian was very calm — not one of his strong suits — which in turn calmed me down. He had obviously given this some thought and patiently took me through his reasoning. He knew we would see eye to eye or he would not have spoken for both of us in the first place. We rarely disagreed. “Mike took off work, came down here in his suit, found us — a task the FBI has found challenging. This threat took planning. He knew before he called the city to get permission to build he had to come see us first.”“I follow you,” I said. “Respect,” Brian declared. Not only did we not trash his house, we made sure no would-be up-and-coming juvenile delinquents touched it either.

Back to that steamy, southern summer day. Mr. Sharp had not shown the appropriate amount of respect — not even close. After he finished his tirade, we all gave a weak apology and went about our day. We had plans to make.Planning attacks was the most enjoyable part of my childhood. It was like a boardroom brainstorming meeting, but without shirts or anyone over age eleven. PowerPoint hadn’t been invented, thank God. Digital documentation of these attacks would probably have gotten us five to ten.Excitement and nervous energy was in the air, aided by the sweet tea and Lik-M-Aid. I loved these meetings even more than the actual attack. They were a chance for me to show off my creative side. I was much better at planning the correct way to shoot someone in the ass with a pellet gun, and Brian was much better at actually doing it. The preparation was elaborate. These meetings routinely lasted a few hours and included a variety of diagrams and sketches to cover positions, timing, supplies, and all other relevant details. I’m surprised the Pentagon didn’t draft us straight out of elementary school. We met in our carport around a card table at about seven in the morning. No moss grew on us. We had things to do.Brian and I were always first to the boardroom to cover classified topics before the rest of the gang arrived. We discussed things like what we would do if someone ratted on us or who we thought would get caught first if the fuzz was on our tail. Then the rest of the gang arrived.“What’s the play?” Brian asked. The new kids threw out ideas to try to impress us. Some weren’t bad, but Brian shot them down with contempt. “T.P. his house?”“Been done,” Brian said.“Egg it?” “More destructive, but boring,” he said. “Send him pizzas?”Brian did not even acknowledge this idea. “Fireworks?” I said. “That’s got legs.” Fireworks are illegal in the state of Georgia. But, about ten minutes down the road, conveniently just over the Alabama state line, stood Firework City, the Holy Grail of gunpowder. Not being able to drive did pose a small problem, but we quickly learned the art of hitchhiking. It’s surprising and somehow heartening to recall a time when people willingly and unquestioningly picked up nine-year-old boys off the side of the highway and dropped them off at an explosives emporium. Brian and I did clean up pretty well when we wanted something, and with our dark skin we looked like a cross between a pre-teen Swedish boy and a young Shaka Zulu. We were pure heat, just two cute innocent identical twin boys trying to get across the state line to the legal dynamite store. Our thumbs never broke a sweat and we were never gone long enough for our parents to miss us. If you were a knowledgeable and therefore confident young firework buyer, you could walk out of Firework City essentially carrying a bundle of dynamiteTNT. They even threw in free Thunder Bombs with your purchase. This might seem crazy to kids today who carry Purell in their back pocket. Yes, you read correctly: we hitchhiked to the Wal-Mart of fireworks, shopped unsupervised, spent our own hard-earned money on explosive devices, and got free mini-sticks of dynamite for being such loyal customers. This was Bremen, Georgia, 1983. It was also time to take inventory. “What kind of fireworks does everyone have left over?” asked Brian. “Roman Candles,” said the kid from Syria, who was new to fireworks, although very enthusiastic and showing huge potential. “Bottle Rockets,” piped the kid with the shiny, perfectly combed blond hair. This hair told the world his mom did not know he was with us. His fireworks were technically Whistlers, but I kept my mouth shut. It was an easy mistake to make, especially with hair like that. This is the same kid who would later get blasted with a fire extinguisher for counting down the remaining days of summer vacation.“Snakes,” whispered the preacher’s son who’d recently moved to the neighborhood. He would later be forbidden by God to hang out with the Weathington Boys. “Did you really just say ‘Snakes’?” Brian asked. “That firework is so lame it’s not even really a firework. Nathan, punch him.”Although he did deserve it, I didn’t punch our new bible school friend. Instead, I did have an epiphany. “Mammoth Smoke!” My voice rang with confidence and hoodlum victory. “A smoke bomb is just as wimpy as my snakes,” our Jesus freak friend retorted. “This ain’t a normal smoke bomb.” Maybe I should have punched him.There was nothing more embarrassing and revealing than a wannabe juvie not knowing his fireworks. This moron would not know the difference between a Ladyfinger and a Butterfinger. What a loser.“Nathan, please educate our friend here on what a Mammoth Smoke is,” Brian instructed. Mr. Bible School thought about mouthing off, but saw Brian was carrying his bat and decided to take his natural position in the pecking order. Last.To call a Mammoth Smoke a smoke bomb would have been like calling his momma big-boned.“One Mammoth Smoke is the same as 10,000 of the things you call smoke bombs.”“So a Mammoth Smoke is the weapon. What’s the plan?” Brian inquired. “I know we’re thinking carport or porch, the usual places, but I think the front door is the target,” I responded. “Huh? It will just blow away,” Brian said. “Well, there are actually two front doors, one main door and one air-tight storm door on the outside.”“I like it, go on.”“We put the smoke bomb—”“You mean Mammoth Smoke.”“Excuse me. So we put the Mammoth Smoke between the doors and light it…”“And ring the door bell!” our young Christian friend chimed in.“You really should try to listen more and talk less. As I was saying, we light the Mammoth Smoke, and wait. It takes ten minutes to dump its full load. Then we ring it.”Brian said he was in; no one else had voting rights. The plan was simple — no PowerPoint needed. The attack started the next day, broad daylight. We lit God’s gift to smoke bombs and hit the bushes. The door was invisible within the first ten seconds. That storm door did its job; only small plumes of smoke escaped. The smoke became thick and looked like gravy. It appeared as if we would need a shovel to dig the smoke out of the door. Finally the hissing stopped. I darted up and rang the doorbell.It took old Mr. Sharp a few minutes to get to the door. When he opened it, just as we had planned, the gravy of 10,000 smoke bombs was sucked into his face and his house. Spasmodic coughing and high pitched screaming ensued; he thought his house was on fire, a legitimate concern under the circumstances, and one that hadn’t really crossed our minds. It was a nice bonus.From our position, we could clearly see into his living room. A drunken chicken was crashing into furniture trying to piece together what the hell was going on. The smoke was thick, heavy, and starting to settle on the floor like a giant s’more.It was time for us to move. Our policy for closing an attack was to get the hell out of Dodge before the neighbors or the cops showed up. Mr. Sharp was left gasping for air in his new marshmallow-themed living room as we sprinted through the woods. The gang fantasized about Mr. Sharp doing the Curly Shuffle on the floor for the next three days.After that, we continued to drink from his faucet and use his yard as a thoroughfare to Big Creek without conflict. Maybe he now respected us, or maybe he was still in the hospital. Either way, we were back in charge. 3. THE Great Wall 1983 – 9 years old

I.The weather forecast called for light snow, and the Weathington Boys forecasted you getting your ass kicked if you messed with our favorite precipitation. It rarely snowed in Bremen; when it did, it was up to the Weathington Boys to ensure every kid in a thirty-mile radius got a snow day. We had to get to work. Before Al Gore caused global warming, it snowed at our house once every two or three years. We loved snow the way an Eskimo loves pineapple. All the kids in the town reminisced about The Big One. The Big One was a massive six-inch dump of snow, but as the years passed it got deeper and deeper. Now living in Canada, I realize how ridiculous we must have seemed to our northern neighbors. Grocery store chains prayed for a snow forecast. Bremen didn’t actually need snow — just a chance of snow, and the entire town would lose their freakin’ minds. Within hours of the news, you would only find bare shelves at Piggly Wiggly, a very highbrow local grocer, and the lines would stretch back to the meat counter. The good-ole-boys always loved the idea of having to live off the land like cavemen using just their wits, a fishing rod, and an AK-47 for survival. Even Brian and I couldn’t help but nod our heads every time Hank Williams’ Country Boy Can Survive came on the radio. In our neighborhood lived an abundance of teachers, including my parents. The homes must have been affordable given the buying power of public school teachers in Georgia. More importantly, we had two principals and one superintendent living on our turf. Having what seemed like every one of our teachers as neighbors was a burden every day of our childhood, except this day. The snow began falling on a Sunday night. It was light, but it stuck. Our neighborhood was rather hilly by local standards, which made it not only hard to get out of, but also a Mecca for would be sledders.Brian and I were the picture of innocence as we looked out our window and talked about the exciting snow games we would play the next day. We already knew where the fort would go and who would be on what snowball team. My mom and dad were sitting in front of the fire reading and sipping hot chocolate. Then Brian and I noticed our neighbor Mr. Doug Douglas, a principal of one of the local schools, driving around the neighborhood. He went by once and we did not pay attention. On the second trip around the neighborhood, I asked Brian if he thought Mr. Douglas was lost. On the third trip around, Brian jumped to attention. “What the hell?” We went downstairs and asked our parents what Mr. Douglas was up to. They explained he was trying to get rid of the snow on the roads to make it safe for us to all go to school the next day. Get rid of the snow! Surely, I had heard incorrectly. Overcome with rage, my vision closed in and I almost blacked out, but before I did, Brian, with ice water in his veins, declared we were both tired and were going to bed. My parents eyed us as Brian led me away by my sleeve. Obviously, Brian was not tired, and besides the blacking out part, I was as keyed up as kangaroo on meth. I knew it was on. Using all the cuss-words we knew at the time (damn and hell) to vent our anger toward Mr. Douglas, it was now time to get down to business. As far as we were concerned, the future of human civilization rested on our shoulders. There was no time to assemble the troops, and an emergency ten o’clock meeting was hard to pull off for nine year olds, even us. It didn’t matter.This job called for the real players: we didn’t have time to baby-sit anyone who was out of shape or out of guts. “We might not see snow like this again in our lifetime,” Brian stated. “Doug will have ruined the best snow that has ever hit this town.” Brian and I hadn’t mastered the art of moderation, a deficit that would plague us well into adulthood. In our demented little minds, it was either worth dying for or not worth doing at all. A snow day was clearly worth dying for; still is, if you ask me. Assessing our potential responses, we worked through the usual violent attacks, but busting windows or egging someone’s house didn’t really solve the problem. “Maybe we should attack his truck,” I said. “I agree, but I doubt we can pull it off with just the two of us.” “We need more snow.”“What about ice?”Mom and Dad stayed up later than usual to enjoy the fire, or more likely because they were not buying Brian’s “we’re tired” act. However, as soon as they were finally asleep at eleven o’clock, we slipped out the back. Our idea would require at least 250 feet of garden hose, which meant we needed not only all the hoses from our house, but three neighbors’ as well. First thing first: Snuff out the snow hater. This was easily accomplished with our football field-length hose. It wouldn’t reach from our house, so we hooked it up to the hater’s house. It was poetic justice, even if Brian and I hated poetry. Next, we watered every inch of his driveway. Two hours later, he had his very own ice rink. While we waited for Mr. Douglas’ driveway to freeze, we hit the remaining big wigs in the neighborhood. It was hard work for two scrawny nine-year-olds to sneak the 100 pounds of water-filled hose through the dark, snow-covered woods. The round trip was about two miles. It was now two in the morning.“Ok, all the big dogs have ice rinks for driveways. Do you think that’s enough?” I asked. “We need to block the street.”“How? We can’t ice over the entire neighborhood. The sun will come up eventually, and Mom and Dad might be pissed if we aren’t there for breakfast.”I was always the voice of reason in the gang, which is a bit of a scary thought. I was far from a mother hen: I just felt obligated to point out that dropping a cross tie on a car might kill someone. I never said we shouldn’t do it; I just wanted to make sure we were all aware of what we were doing. As an aside, let’s fast forward to our college years to find out what happened when the voice of reason left town.

Graduating early from college, I left Brian and the infamous Ray, whom I will formally introduce in a later chapter, without their voice of reason. Better said: Brian and Ray took two extra years to graduate. It was touch-and-go if they were going to make it out of there alive and without a jailhouse tattoo. They like to paint me as a prude, and I guess I am compared to them, but so is Charles Manson. Although they give me a hard time, I know they are thankful for my valuable counseling over the years. For the record, I have never told them they should not do something. I was smart enough to phrase it another way. “I’m not trying to tell you two how to live your lives, but we’re over 18, and this stunt is a minimum of five years in real ass-rape level prison. Do you think it’s worth it?”“Maybe not when you put it that way. Good point, Nate,” Brian or Ray would say. It should be mentioned that Brian and Ray were the only ones who called me Nate; when others did I usually corrected them. Although it was never addressed, it felt forced, like one of my son’s slack-jawed schoolmates calling me ‘Dad.’Unfortunately, I can’t comment much on those college years. Although damn entertaining, there might be some statute of limitation issues, and I can’t afford a lawyer at this time. The general book-buying public also might not see the humor in an old-school B&E, beating up cops, racketeering, slapping around and robbing a boy band, or breaking someone’s ass in half if they mess with Willie Nelson. Well, maybe the boy band part. I’ll put that in the next book.

Back to saving civilization – and our snow day.“We have to block the street!” Brian said again, sharply.Urgency was setting in; we were getting panicky and starting to snap at each other. Had we failed at our mission? Were all the kids going to have to go to school the next day because of our ineptness? Had we tarnished our good name? “We have to do it. We have no choice,” I said. “Well, they all have to come out the same road,” Brian contemplated. “They all go up the hill in front of the house,” I responded.“True. I wish we could ice over the entire hill or make it too thick to drive over.” “It’s not cold enough for that many layers.”“But we could shovel it all from the neighborhood and put it in one spot.” Brian and I instantly knew this was our only hope. We picked up two five-gallon buckets and two shovels from the shed. Discussing it further was a waste of time. There was not a single complaint issued during the next four hours of hard labor. It was below freezing and we were in short sleeves, but we didn’t have the luxury of time to dress ourselves properly. Our people needed us: no kid would be left behind. The snow might have been a half-inch deep in the thickest spot. We scraped every flake we could find and put it in buckets that we ran up the hill and placed on the Bremen version of the Great Wall. We worked like the slaves on the pyramids — minus the heat, daylight, and repetitive whipping. Three hours later at around five in the morning, it looked as if it had snowed only in a five foot tall, 25-foot wide section of wall barricading the road. We shaped and packed it with pride. Our hands were ice themselves, but the warmth of delinquency kept us going. Once we had a rough design in place, it was still just snow, and a pickup truck could bust through. “I’m starting to feel good about this,” Brian said.“Me too.”“We need to ice it.”“Obviously.”The wall ran between two homes. We split our hoses and ran two lines. The wall was soaked for the remainder of the night. As the sun came up, we replaced all hoses and tools and slid back into bed. We had been there barely long enough to warm up when my mom called us down for yet another amazing breakfast. Our mom served us a hot breakfast every day of our lives. Sometimes I think the only thing that kept us out of the Pen was my mom’s homemade biscuits. I’m hoping the same strategy works on my boys.We woke up groggy, but excited. My dad commented that we still looked tired, but Mom’s biscuits were soon the center of attention, and my dad went about sketching another brilliant football play on his napkin. “I know you don’t want to go school today,” my dad said. “But it doesn’t look like there is much snow on the ground. Sorry, boys.”“There goes Doug,” my mom said. “Good luck,” Brian mumbled with a biscuit in his mouth.I pretended to choke as I got my laughter under control. “Doug’s back fast; it must not be clear,” Mom said. “That’s weird; Tim hasn’t made it out either.”At this point, we started packing in the biscuits; we had a big day ahead of us. Slowly, everyone started to come out of their homes to see what exactly was going on. Since there was zero snow or ice on the road, people were wondering why everyone who left for work or school promptly came back. Simultaneously, all neighborhood eyes fell on the large white wall in the middle of the black asphalt. It became the focus of conversation. Brian and I feigned confusion as we asked what was going on. Many of the neighbors flocked to the wall like those old farts in Cocoon. They touched it, kicked at it, and stood on it. Unless someone had a backhoe and five sticks of dynamite, it was not moving. It worked much better than we had planned. It was so hard it did not even feel like ice. It was more like a cold block of granite. The wall also had an ice slick downstream from the leftover water; a nice touch that slowed down would-be rammers. I can only imagine what it feels like for a woman to bring life onto this planet, but I’m pretty sure it would pale in comparison to the pride, excitement, and overwhelming joy Brian and I felt toward that wall. Everyone was confused about where the wall came from, including my mom and dad. My dad was actually confused, but this was Mom’s normal routine. Anytime something was amiss, she always knew who did it, but would go along with the shock and confusion of the rest of the pack. I swear she could have passed a lie detector test; the woman is a genius. She was a silent partner in our escapades in some respects. Just like us, she would never rat out a friend, and her friends in this case were her two delinquent sons. Her voice would not crack or stutter, and she had a tight poker face only Brian and I could read. Her face would appear warmer to the two of us, despite the fact her expression was unchanged to the general public. She always thought of us as clever, not mischievous, and enjoyed our freedom as much as we did. Now I don’t want to give the impression my mom was a pushover. She would not tolerate us being disrespectful in any way, and we always did as we were told. She had not specifically said not to barricade the neighborhood. So why in the world did she allow us to run feral, destroying everything in our path? She loved us, but all moms love their kids. Unlike every other mom in town, I now know that we highly entertained her. She found the merit badge, prom king, bible freak, and piano-playing choirboys boring. And if we were anything, it wasn’t boring. I know she had to keep a straight face and remain stern when she disciplined us. However, how mad could she realistically be at two boys industrious enough to shut down the entire school system, thus allowing her a well-deserved day off? Our mom always protected us; or maybe she was protecting herself. Either way, it worked to our advantage. Brian and I returned home to listen for the school closures on the radio. They read them off one by one. They finished by naming Bremen City Schools. Just as we had planned, if the school VIPs could not make it in, the little people would be free. Brian gave me a very subtle nod. Mission accomplished. My mom entered the house in near hysterics. She already had tears in her eyes from laughing.“You two…” she stopped as if she were about to say something very profound. “Are quite unbelievable.”

II.Although we’d been awake for 27 hours, the day wasn’t over yet. We were just getting warmed up. The overly aggressive snowball fight was first, followed by the most dangerous sledding you could possibly imagine. We didn’t have the luxury of a snow-blanketed road like our spoiled Yankee and Canadian neighbors:some fancy maneuvering was necessary if you wanted to avoid road rash. (The snow farming for the Great Wall had left large bare patches of asphalt.) Sparks lit up the road behind our sleds in an impressive light show.Next was a ten-person flat bottom boat ride down the hill. Just for your information: The momentum of a flat bottom boat with ten guys — and your mom — going down a steep, ice-glazed hill is far greater than the static force of a maroon 4x4 mailbox post, standard issue as per the bylaws of our posh neighborhood. Said boat will snap it off like a toothpick. Although it had been an action-packed night and day, we still had one more attack left. Like pint-sized generals at the Battle of Fort Sumter, we arranged our elementary school troops within entrenched positions on either side of the Wall and distributed every last snowball that could be mustered.The Great Wall was as we’d left it early that morning. But now a Lincoln Town Car, a massive car with plenty of muscle under the hood, approached the Wall.The driver got out, sized up the obstacle with disdain and figured she could bust through. She had a bitter scowl on her face, as hard as the wall, as she climbed once again behind the wheel of her Lincoln leviathan.She backed up about a hundred feet and got a running start. Her speed was impressive, almost scary. Brian and I watched in mute fascination as the Lincoln hit the Wall straight on. The Wall won. It did not even flake. The Lincoln crumpled like an accordion. The woman jumped out of the car, crying and screaming in her Sunday best.It was go time. Every boy simultaneously jumped from his hiding spot in the snowball version of D-Day. She looked like Snow White trying to fend off those seven horny midgets. Even the limp-wristed, unathletic kids were lighting her up. Brian and I both had cannons for arms, and he could thread the needle. Brian was so skilled at throwing that he never just tried to hit you, he tried for a specific part of you. It was a headshot or nothing. If I knew him, he was aiming for the face as well: The back of the head just did not splat the same. The beauty of the mass attack is no one knows who actually threw the kill shot, except the person who threw it, or his twin brother, in this case. Brian made his target on the second throw.Luckily it was not a battle-grade snowball. It was a gentle yet effective splat that covered most of her face. To say she was crying would be an understatement. Wailing would be more appropriate. Brian and I knew this was the climax of a long, well-earned day off from school. Before all hell broke loose, we slid out the back and were home in time for dinner. Mom’s vegetable soup was a mainstay on snow days. This, along with the homemade southern cornbread that probably had more lard than corn in it, sent us straight into a food coma. Brian and I both slept for twelve hard hours. Sacrifices sometimes must be made for the betterment of society. We were the juvenile suburban version of Robin Hood, and the snow-deprived kids of rural Georgia were the beneficiaries. The Great Wall lasted for weeks. Eventually, once it softened, neighbors used picks and shovels to clear off one lane for traffic. Remnants of ice were still on the road a month later, when we were back in our cutoffs.